The Whisper Man(93)

“George?”

“He’s one of our teaching assistants. But—”

“Is he here now?”

“He should be.”

She glanced back, and that was all the time it took for me to move past her into the corridor beyond.

“Mr. Kennedy!”

“Tom—”

I ignored them both, glancing sideways into the cloakroom, where the children from Jake’s class were hanging up their things—where Jake should have been—and then I started running, rounding the corner ahead and entering the main hall, which was filled with children traipsing toward the classrooms on all sides. I dodged between them, then stopped in the middle, the hall spinning around me as I looked here and there, not knowing which room might be Jake’s, and where George might be. I was in trouble here, I knew that deep down, but it didn’t matter because if I didn’t find Jake my life was over anyway, and if George was here, then he couldn’t be hurting— Adam.

I recognized Karen’s son putting his water bottle on a table at the far end of the hall, then walking through a door. I ran across, noticing one of the receptionists and an older man, the groundskeeper, heading down a far corridor toward the hall. Mrs. Shelley must have called ahead. An intruder in the school would warrant that, I guessed.

“Mr. Kennedy,” the receptionist shouted.

But I reached the classroom before they did, moving quickly inside, still just about self-aware enough not to push the children in front of me out of the way. The room was a cacophony of color, the walls painted yellow and adorned with what seemed like hundreds of laminated sheets: multiplication tables; pictures of fruit and numbers; small, cartoonish figures performing tasks with their occupations written beside them. I looked across the sea of tiny tables and chairs, searching for an adult. An older woman was standing at the far end of the room, staring at me in confusion, clutching a register on a clipboard, but she was the only grown-up I could see.

And then I felt a hand on my arm.

I turned to find the old groundskeeper standing beside me, a firm expression on his face.

“You can’t be in here.”

“All right.”

I fought the urge to shake his hand off me. There was no point—whoever George was, he wasn’t here. But the frustration at that made me shake his hand off anyway.

“All right.”

Outside the classroom, the groundskeeper pointedly closed the door. Mrs. Shelley was walking toward me, her phone in her hand. I wondered if she’d already used it to call the police. If so, maybe they’d start taking me seriously now.

“Mr. Kennedy—”

“I know. I shouldn’t be in here.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“Put me on yellow, then.”

She started to say something, but then stopped herself. More than anything else, she looked concerned.

“You said Jake is missing?”

“Yes,” I said. “Someone took him last night.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what … obviously I understand that you’re upset.”

I wasn’t sure she could. The panic was like a live wire inside me now.

“I need to find George,” I said.

“He’s not here.”

The receptionist. She was standing with her arms folded, and she looked considerably less forgiving than Mrs. Shelley.

“Where is he?” I said.

“Well, I imagine he’s at home. He called in sick a little while ago.”

The alarm went up a notch. That couldn’t be a coincidence. And it meant he was with Jake right now.

“Where does he live?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal staff details.”

I thought about marching straight past her and getting into the main office. The groundskeeper was standing there, blocking the way, but the man was in his sixties and I could win that fight if I tried. There would be police and charges to answer then, but it would be worth it if I had enough time in the office to search the cabinets and find the information I wanted. But not much use to me if I couldn’t. And not much use to Jake if I ended up in custody.

“You’ll give it to the police?” I said.

“Of course.”

I turned and walked across the hall, back the way I’d come. They followed me, making sure I left. After I stepped outside, the door was closed and locked behind me. The playground was almost entirely empty now, but Karen was waiting for me by the gate, an anxious look on her face.

“Thank fuck,” she said. “You know you could have got arrested for that?”

“I need to find him.”

“This George? Who is he?”

“Classroom assistant. He drew something for Jake to copy—a butterfly. One of the ones they found with the body in the garage.”

Karen looked skeptical. And hearing myself say it out loud again, I didn’t blame her. But just as with Beck, it was impossible to make other people understand. The person who had taken Jake had known about the remains, I was sure of it, so they would know about the butterflies and the boy in the floor. My son wasn’t psychic. He was vulnerable and lonely, and he had to have learned about those things from someone. Someone with access to him.

Someone with access to him right now.

“The police?” Karen said.